The Lurker in the Dark
by Triptych
Summary: A modern day HP Lovecraft horror fanfic for Call of Cthulhu! The story of a remarkable man named Seth Augustine and of his quest to uncover the mystery of a strange house that is being haunted by a malevolent spectre.
1. Part I

A Lovecraft fanfic based on "The Haunting", an RPG supplement published by Chaosium Inc. for the Call of Cthulhu RPG. All rights reserved.

**The Lurker in the Dark**

**By Triptych**

_Man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly,_

_Save only through the weakness of his feeble will._

-Joseph Glanvill

It is quite certain that everyone will tell you that they have met at least one remarkable person in their life. Most people will answer that it may be one of their relatives, such as a cherished uncle, maternal grandmother or wise father. Others may even say that the most remarkable people that they have met are politicians, celebrities and other famous people. Yet a small minority of people may answer you in a quite unexpected way, that the individuals who they have experienced and judged as remarkable are people just like you and me. These types of remarkable individuals are not famous or related to them, but are rather eccentric in some ways.

  I must therefore relate to you how I have met such a person as well as the horrific events that had unfolded from the course of this meeting. You must take great care that the tale I am about to tell you might be quite uncanny in regards to what I have to say about the supernatural and of things that should never be discussed, but I trust that you read this tale with an open mind.

  First of all, I must tell you that I have never been a believer in ghosts or vampires and of other things in which relates to the world of the dead. I was raised in a secular family and had quite a normal boyhood. Although horror movies had fascinated me as a child I gradually outgrew these diversions and focused my life's energies unto the real world. Women, food, money; it was these things that occupied my time and I had no other cares in the world.

  My thirst for the thrills of the real world made me choose law enforcement as an occupation. I served with the Los Angeles Police department for seven years, gradually rising from uniformed patrolman to a detective in the homicide division. For awhile I had an utter sense of satisfaction with my work until my inevitable spirit of adventurism drove me to resign from the Department and pursue my lifelong dream of becoming a private investigator.

  Another reason why I had decided on this new course of career at that stage in my life was that my mother had passed away and her will had bequeathed me the ancestral home of my family in Arkham, Massachusetts. I did not want to sell the old mansion for the one promise my mother asked of me was that the house would never leave the guardianship of the family. It must forever belong to someone of our blood. My early childhood memories were spent in that house and I had decided upon keeping it. It was an old house, with over ten bedrooms on the second story and had grounds in which I played with my two brothers across old gardens and gazebos. That house carried pleasant memories for me and I had decided to move back there since I no longer wished to stay on the West Coast.

  And so for the next two years I had moved back to Arkham and set up my business as that of a private detective. Most of the cases that I was involved with were pretty mundane: divorces and extramarital affairs took most of my time. From jealous wives to suspecting husbands, they would come into my office and ask me to place their spouses or lovers under surveillance to see if they had been cheated upon. With no better excuse other than the money I was making, I decided to pursue this type of career until I planned to retire in the next twenty odd years or so. That was my plan of course, until the day that Mr. Valdemar came into my office asking for an appointment.

  Mr. Valdemar was a thin, spectacled man with a small mustache. If he were not a potential client of mine, I would have dismissed him as a weasel; he had the look of it. Valdemar came into the office and after exchanging some pleasantries with me, sat down on the guest chair.

  "Mr. Marlowe, you are a private investigator, yes?" He asked.

  "That's what it says on the sign outside." I replied smugly. He didn't seem so smart.

  "Oh yes, I am sorry for asking the obvious." He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. "Mrs. Rourke had told me that you were the proper person to help me with my little problem. She said that you were dependable and discreet when you handled her affair."

  "Oh yes, Mrs. Rourke. How is she doing by the way?"

  "She is quite better now, thank you. After that nasty little spat with her late husband's lover, she is finally free of her conscience as we say. She thanks you once again."

  "You may tell her she is welcome the next time you see her. Now, what can I do for you Mr. Valdemar?" I was eager to get this going.

  "Ah yes, now we get to the point. I must tell you a little bit about myself first, Mr. Marlowe."

  "Please, call me Ace. All my friends and clients do." I answered.

  "Ace, what a terrific nickname. All right. I am a sort of semi-retired man Ace, what I do nowadays is mostly buying properties and either renting them out or selling them. There is one property that I have recently purchased several weeks ago and I would like you to check it out. It's called the Corbitt house, along Hill Street." Valdemar then paused and waited for the effect.

  He got me. "Ah, the Corbitt house." 

  "Yes, I am quite sure you are aware of that nasty little incident."

  "Oh yes, who hasn't? It was all over the news several weeks ago. A family of four moves into an old house and then both parents become committed into an insane asylum a year later. Both claimed that the house is _haunted_." I recalled.

  "Yes, that is the story. Well, it so happens that I had recently purchased the property from the previous owner due to the fact that it was a terrific bargain to begin with. What I need is someone to investigate it and put the rumors of this house being haunted to rest."

  "Mr. Valdemar, I'm a private investigator. Most of my caseload involves divorces and affairs. Are you quite sure that I am the person for this?"

  Valdemar smiled as he adjusted his glasses. "I really can't think of any other professional that would be able to help me, Mr. Marlowe. There isn't a listing for _ghost hunter_ on the telephone directory now is there?"

  "Quite right. I may have to clear the other cases on my desk for this."

  " I am prepared to pay you your usual fee plus a bonus once you've checked it all out, Ace."

  "Very well, you have me. Tell me, have you spent any time in that house?"

  "Other than looking at it a few weeks ago, no."

  "Let me ask you one last question, why is it called the Corbitt house?"

  "I'm afraid I don't know, Mr. Marlowe." Valdemar answered.

  "Fair enough. Let me get to work then."


	2. Part II

  The Corbitt house along Hill Street seemed to be innocuous enough. Made of brick, this two-story bungalow fronted a quiet residential road but it nevertheless impressed me by the way the house seemed to withdraw into the shadows cast by the small hillock behind it. Looking at it from the road beside it, I could feel a sense of foreboding as I looked upon the blank curtained windows and the earthen colored brick walls and yet I could not quite place where the dread was coming from.

  I remember it quite clearly as if it just happened yesterday. After locking up my car I pushed open the rusting, waist-high fence gate and strode around the grounds before coming inside. Since the property was abandoned several months before, the grasses and weeds had overgrown into an unnatural pattern. The grounds itself were surrounded by a low, waist-high wire fence. It also seemed strange that on this street in particular there were no residential houses, rather the rest of the street consisted of abandoned tenements or nondescript warehouses. To the rear of the property was a hillock with stunted trees that strangely no birds sang from and cast a long shadow over the house itself, as if to shield it from the purifying rays of the afternoon sun. Walking around, my foot bumped into something that was hidden in the tall grass. I bent over and picked it up. It originally looked like a doll's head. But upon closer inspection I realized that it was a head from a statue of the Virgin Mary, one of its glass eyes was missing, as if it was violently torn out by some hideous claw.

  With the keys provided to me by my benefactor, I unlocked the padlock that was bolted on outside before I placed the residential key into the doorknob. The door seemed to resist my slight shove until a second, more forceful thrust finally opened it.

  It seemed that the house was hurriedly abandoned in the wake of the incident. Small quantities of dust had begun to cover the floor and the furniture. As I strode on past the anteroom and into the narrow corridor, I began to take stock of the ground floor itself; in addition to the anteroom there were four other rooms on this level: a storeroom parallel to that of the anteroom and three other rooms separated by the corridor: the living room, dining room and kitchen. There were also two flights of stairs at the end of the corridor; one going up to the upper story and another descending into the basement.

  After taking stock of the rooms on my initial observations, I began a more thorough search of anything that might be useful to my investigations into this baffling case. The anteroom in which the main entrance to the house lay had a closet that contained galoshes as well as raincoats with a dry mop behind several cardboard boxes. Since I didn't find anything unusual, I then opened an adjoining door into the storage room. As the next few hours languished by, I rummaged through several dusty boxes only to find junk and unused furniture. The sun began to set as I pulled out my flashlight from my coat pocket and did a cursory glance at the other main rooms on this level. The dining room had a long mahogany table with four matching chairs; this was evidently a heirloom of the Macario family, the previous boarders of the house. Striding into the kitchen, I noticed that there were still a few canned goods left in the meager larder and a slight rotting smell confirmed to me that the refrigerator had rotting food inside of it. The living room itself also seemed nondescript at first glance, with a sofa, easy chair, TV set and DVD player occupying most of the space. But I soon realized that as I observed the room with the dying rays of the sun, I noticed that there were unusual quantities of crucifixes, crosses and images of the Virgin strewn all around the place. It was as if they were placed there to protect them from _something_.

  What confused me was that as I took out the head of the statue that I had found on the grounds earlier that afternoon; I could not find the matching statue with which to place the head back on.

  As night descended at last upon the place, I made my way up the stairs with the bright shaft of my flashlight leading the way. The utility company had already turned off the electricity to the place since that incident with the Macarios and therefore I had to make do with what I was carrying. The upper story was definitely smaller in scale than the ground floor with three bedrooms facing the street. A door leading into a typical bathroom for four was at the end of the upper corridor. I turned on the tap and was quite surprised to still find it running. The first bedroom I went into seemed to be the master bedroom; it had a large bed and a bookshelf that also contained a dusty TV set. This was evidently the room of the parents, Victor and Gabriela Macario. More crosses as well as a rosary and a breviary rested on a night table beside the bed. From my knowledge I knew the Macarios to be an immigrant family from South America and so I dismissed the inordinate amount of religious artifacts I found that night to be nothing more than coincidence. How wrong I would be in the days to come.

  The second bedroom had two small beds as well as toys and posters of fighter planes. This was evidently the bedroom of the two boys. The third room was the curious part of the whole house so far. Even though the Macarios had two boys, they chose them to live in one bedroom yet the third bedroom was completely empty except for a bed frame and an empty dresser. It seemed to me that it was as nondescript as the other rooms in the house. As I sat on the bare bed frame, a scratching noise seemed to come from the ground floor.

  I quickly got up and ran down the stairs, hoping to find the source of the persistent scratching but the noise seemed to have died as soon as my feet touched the ground floor. Since I was already there, I then proceeded to go down the other stairway leading to the basement. As I ventured down the creaky wooden steps, my flashlight began to dim. I cursed silently because I had just changed the batteries of the flashlight and already it was giving me trouble. Once or twice I nearly slipped down the steps, as the wooden steps themselves seemed to be slippery with rat droppings. As the dimming light of my flashlight shone around the smallish room, I did not find anything unusual. The sidewalls were brick with the exception of the east wall that was wood. There were scattered tools as well as pipe and lumber strewn all around; it looked like this room had not been used in ages. The flooring was solid concrete and seemed to serve as a rock solid foundation to the house itself. As I walked back up the stairs, I noticed a peculiar stench that manifested itself as soon as I got back up; it was a stench unlike no other, a putrid, rotting smell that had the characteristics of rotting flesh, maggot infested fruits and excrement. I quickly fathomed that I might have stumbled upon dead rats and quickly got it out of my mind.

  As the night wore on, I resolved that I would stay there for the night in case I would bear witness to anything unusual. I immediately chose the spare bedroom on the upper floor because I had a sense that there was a _presence_ in that room that I could not place. Looking down from the bedroom window into the deserted street below, I was comforted by the glow from the streetlamp that cast long, dim shadows across the sparse room I was in. As the minutes dragged on into hours, the blanket of drowsiness began to overcome me and I fell into a catatonic slumber upon the bare bed frame.

  That night, I had dreams of no other. As I imagined myself transported across vast gulfs of unfathomable lands, rotting graveyards and vistas of strange, alien worlds until at last I came face to face with a figure in shadow but with _burning eyes_.

  As the nightmare ended, I woke up with a start. As my eyes opened I realized that I was back in that spare bedroom and the light of dawn had filtered into the room. Did that dream have something to do with this case? If so, what did it all mean? This case had me thoroughly baffled and confused now, and I needed help. It was then that I knew I had to talk to Augustine. He would help me.


	3. Part III

  It was only a few months before I took this case that I had met a most remarkable man. Oh, it wasn't his appearance that made an impression on me, but rather his peculiar habits. His name is Seth Augustine. Of his past, I knew very little save that he spent his earliest childhood being raised by monks in some obscure monastery in the heart of Europe. I also knew that he had spent his formative years under the tutelage of the bishops and cardinals of the Vatican State. He had learned about the Christian faith as well as how to protect it, at least that's what he told me.

  I guess it must be said that men are either born or bred but in Augustine's case, he was definitely groomed for something that ordinary men could not possibly fathom. When fathers would teach their sons on how to play baseball or ride a bike, the monks and priests who were his caretakers would make him study arcane tomes in the vast vaults of the Vatican. Augustine read tomes of ancient lore as well as the lost books that the theocrats deemed too blasphemous to be revealed to the public such as the apocryphical lost gospels of Thomas and Judith. Having a working knowledge of Latin by age nine, Augustine had already read unfathomable tomes such as the _Black Book of the Skull_ and _De Vermiis Mysteriis_. By twelve years of age, the bishops even allowed him to indulge in a few pages of the dreaded _Necronomicon_, an ancient work written by a mad Arab who claimed to have heard the voices of demons in the desert winds that foretold the imminent destruction of mankind. What permitted these men of faith to allow an innocent child to be exposed to the cosmic horrors that the rest of mankind itself wasn't ready to face is baffling. My only conclusion is that they were preparing this boy in the advent of a holy war with horrid, unnamable Gods.

  Nevertheless, on my first impression upon meeting Seth Augustine, I was surprised by his tact and patience. Though only of average height, Augustine's bottle green eyes and intense charisma made quite an impression on me that this was no ordinary man. He first came to my office many months ago due to the fact that he was inquiring about the newspaper advertisement I had put up looking for a boarder to stay my mother's house. You see, despite the fact that I had fond memories of that house, I found it too ancient and too large for my tastes and I had therefore moved to an apartment overlooking the city square. I needed someone to rent it and to keep it in shape. Augustine replied that it was just the type of dwelling he was looking for. That baffled me because by this time many old houses in Arkham were being torn down in favor of bungalows and apartment blocks. What made it even more peculiar was that he mentioned that he would be the sole boarder of the house and he would gladly pay the rent of the other, unused rooms that I had originally intended for use by other boarders.

  It seemed to me that Augustine was a _dilettante_ of some kind. He seemed to have access to ready amounts of money even though he did not seem to hold a job anywhere in the city. Although I had some misgivings, I accepted his offer and he moved into my mother's house not long after. As the next few months passed, I had heard of no complaints by the neighbors nor had I heard from Augustine other than his occasional trips to the city center to purchase old antiques or to replenish his food supply. 

  It was then that I decided to pay him a little visit. I wanted to see what had he done with my mother's house. As I parked my car and entered the foyer I was surprised as to how immaculately clean the mansion was, considering that it was in disrepair when I rented it out to him. A number of ancient stained glass windows had been restored to their former glory and was casting myriad shafts of light across the cavernous hallway of the main entrance. As I met him at the door and he led me through the manor, it seemed that he had given the ancient dwelling a whole new breadth of life. Even the library, where my father's prized possession of antique books had been left to rot by neglect years before, was now in the process of being carefully restored to its former glory. It even seemed that Augustine had added to the collection by donating his own prized gathering of strange, antique tomes.

  "You are a very strange person Augustine." I told him.

  "Why so?" he replied incredulously.

  "Look at you, you seem no more older than me, yet you indulge in restoring these old books when you could just set up a computer and be able to access what you need on the Internet."

  "I'm afraid I don't know how to access the Internet. Much less operate a computer I'm afraid." Augustine shrugged.

  I was shocked. "Strange, you are the first man I met who isn't old yet has no working knowledge of computers."

  "That is not all my friend. I cannot even drive a car."

  "Can't drive a car? Now you must be joking. Everyone in America knows how to drive a car."

  "I'm afraid not. If I need to get around, I either take a bus, train or cab; or leave myself at the mercy of charitable people." Augustine smiled.

  Augustine went on to explain that he had no occupation either. It seems that he was being financed by a wealthy organization headquartered in Europe somewhere. I began to wonder if he was a criminal of some kind, forced into exile out here. But a quick check on the FBI's Internet website produced negative results so I had decided to leave it for now. But as the months passed, we both gradually began a friendship after which I learned more about this strange man and his purpose of staying in Arkham.

  It seemed that Augustine had an unnatural interest in the occult and the supernatural. He was also convinced that the town of Arkham was one of the centers of supernatural activity in the world and he had been tasked by the Church to observe it. I could barely believe this story as I listened to it but it did seem to make sense due to the fact that he regularly received packages by post from the Vatican State and much of his money came from a bank with ties to that institution.

  But as I finally had a chance to speak with him about who and what he was, it seemed that there was even more to him that I did not quite comprehend. It was during a lazy afternoon, a few weeks before I undertook the Corbitt case, did I finally understand what he really was about. On that day, I had finished the paperwork and decided to pay him a visit after he had invited me for coffee numerous times, only to be spurned for a number of miscellaneous reasons until my curiosity finally overcame my reluctance.

  "So you would consider yourself a religious man?" I asked after the coffee was served in the cavernous office of my mother's mansion. The shafts of light coming from the arched gothic windows illuminated the wooden paneling of the room.

  "To a certain degree, yes I am." Augustine answered.

  "Would you consider yourself a true believer, a true Christian then?"

  "A true believer, yes. A true Christian on the other hand, no."

  I was surprised. "You're not a Christian? But what of your sponsors? Is it not the Catholic Church in Rome?"

  "Oh, they are one of my sponsors. But I must tell you that the Church wasn't the only instrument in my upbringing."

  "Oh really? What else then?"

  "If I were to say that although I spent my formative years under the tutelage of the Bishops in the Vatican but then I must also add that I had spent a number of years with an obscure council of Rabbis near the Dead Sea."

  "Rabbis? Amazing."

  "Yes, under them, I had learned about the _Torah_ and the nature of the _Kabbalah_. Afterwards I journeyed to the Middle East where I stayed in an Islamic school where I also learned the Koran and made my _Haj_, my pilgrimage to Mecca."

  "So you studied Judaism and Islam as well? Remarkable."

  "And just a few years ago, I shaved my head and became a monk in the _Wat_ _Krang_ temple in Thailand. So I had studied Buddhism as well."

  "My, my. It seems you have had extensive experiences in the world's religions."

  Augustine's bottle-green eyes stared at me. "Mr. Marlowe, do you believe that there is a higher power?"

  "I can't really say I have given it much thought. The few things that keeps my mind occupied are paying the bills, seeing my girlfriend and having a good time."

  "So you live totally in the material world? You have never stopped and wonder why as to why you are here? Or we are you going?"

  "Can't say I have Augustine. I may have stopped and thought about it for awhile, but I just probably swept it out once a more pressing thought came into my little head." I smiled.

  Augustine sighed and leaned back into the massive leather chair. "I understand. Most people in the world don't stray as far as people like myself in terms of spirituality."

  "So Augustine, based on your extensive knowledge of spirituality and religion, where do you think mankind is headed to?"

  It was then I noticed a spark in his eyes, as if out of many people that he had encountered, I had asked the question that he had trained his whole life to answer. "Let me tell you Marlowe, there are things out there that had best not be explained. We live on an island surrounded by an ocean of myth and supposition. We create rules we call science in order to give our lives and our sanity a sense of order, but you must ask yourself this: is what you perceive truly reality?"

  "Oh come now Augustine, I am a firm believer of science. If you can't touch it, if you can't see it, if you can't _sense_ it; then it's not worth believing in."

  "Ghosts, witches, demons. These mythical creatures are just that to you? Myths?"

  "Yeah, when you see one horror movie that splatter's somebody's brains all over the scene, you've seen them all."

  "I don't watch movies, nor do I bother with television."

  "Don't watch TV? God, you are truly amazing."

  "Marlowe, what if I was to tell you that there is another world that exists, parallel to yours, a world in which there are cosmic forces at work, looking to one day supplant humanity and reveal what a dark and satanic place the world would become."

  "I'd say that you were out of your mind."

  "Our time is near Marlowe. There are worse things out there than just witches, ghosts and demons."

  "Oh, what could be worse?"

  "The Old Ones, when they return, our world will be plunged into madness, chaos and death."

  "The Old Ones? What are they, some sort of ancient gods?"

  "They are worshipped as gods by some cults and primitive societies but their evil is malignant. They are ancient creatures of immense power over time and space. They are loathsome to behold and I fear that if we do not put a stop to their existence, it will be the death of us all."

  "Excuse me Augustine, but I find this conversation to be bordering on insanity."

  But Augustine would not be swayed. "Arkham is one of the lay points of this other world Marlowe, it is where things and events would begin before the end of our time. It is fortunate that most of mankind uses science as a way of explaining things, for if man was to use other methods of answering his questions; the world would be a blasphemous place indeed. If I may, I would like to offer you my services just in case you do encounter something that your common sense or science cannot explain. After all, it is my task in life."

  Well, it seemed that his words became prophetic. I needed his help now.


	4. Part IV

   After spending a night at the Corbitt house, I immediately drove over to my parent's mansion where Augustine was residing. Letting myself in with the master key, I proceeded over to the garden at the back where I found him placing some freshly cut roses into a vase.

  "Augustine, I need to talk to you."

  "I was wondering when you would finally show up, I have some leads in which could help you in your investigation of the Corbitt house."

  "How did you know I was going to ask you about that?" I inquired.

  Augustine grinned as he placed the last of the white roses into the vase. "A number of things. First of all, I had read in the newspapers about the family that was driven out of that place. Secondly, your girlfriend has been placing calls here in the past few days asking whether I had seen you and thirdly, she mentioned to me about your meeting with a certain Mr. Valdemar, who is apparently the current owner of that property."

  "I see. I'll have to talk to her about keeping her mouth shut."

  "You shouldn't worry Marlowe. Come, let us proceed into the study for a cup of tea so that we may think things through."

  Augustine had apparently hired a servant. I couldn't quite get his name but he was a Chinese immigrant who spoke very little. His servant ushered us into the study where he had placed some breakfast. Having not eaten for a while I wolfed down everything that was on my plate and ordered a second helping as Augustine sat on a plush leather chair, deep in thought.

  "Any ideas Augustine?" I asked as I sipped my fourth cup of coffee.

  "Oh, I am quite sorry Marlowe, I was actually thinking as to what part of this room should I place the roses."

  "Roses? What's with you and these flowers anyway? I thought you were a priest, not a gardener."

  "I enjoy planting roses, it gives me a sense of peace and tranquility as well as being a symbol of my profession. In my line of work, one always needs beauty."

  "A symbol? How?"

  "A rose has a double meaning. In Greek mythology, the god of love once offered a rose to the god of silence, as a bribe, to keep that god from disclosing the weaknesses of the rest of the pantheon. In time, the rose became a symbol for silence and confidentiality. During the Medieval period, a rose was customarily suspended from the ceiling of a council chamber. The participants pledged themselves never to reveal what was discussed at the meeting, _sub rosa_-under the rose."

  "So this means that this war you fight, against these _Old Ones_, must be in secret?"

  "Precisely. Only by not revealing the whole truth can mankind survive."

  "Symbols. Okay, fine. Can we get back to the task at hand?"

  Augustine's eyes were closed as if he was deep in thought. "The Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius had always counseled simplicity. First principles. Of each particular thing, ask: What is it in itself, in its own constitution? What is its causal nature?"

  "I don't get it."

  "In order to understand something, one must look at it from all angles, different perspectives. And most importantly, a direct solution is one that is staring at you in the face, yet because of man's penchant to make things complicated, the answer to the problem often eludes him. What does Valdemar want from you?"

  "He wants me to prove that the house isn't haunted so that he can either sell it at a profit or put some tenants in it."

  At length, I explained what had happened the night before.

  "The family, tell me about them."

  "The Macarios? An immigrant family from Portugal. They moved into the house two years before the incident. Then weird things started to happen, the father had a serious accident and shortly thereafter went insane. He was committed. Within the last few months, the mother also went insane. Both babbled of a horrible spirit with burning eyes. Neither one of them would go into one of the upstairs bedrooms."

  Augustine pursed his lips. "Two years. How old is the house?"

  "I don't know."

  "We will need to gather all the facts before we could proceed Marlowe. We need to interview the Macarios, both the parents as well as the children; they can give us first-hand accounts as to the events that had happened in the house. But most importantly, we need to delve into the history of that place, I have a feeling that we will find the answers to this enigma there."

  "Well, I could find out from my friends in the police force where the kids are; we already know where to find the parents, in the loony bin- Arkham Asylum."

  "Then we shall proceed there first, I had already placed an appointment with the Head Psychiatrist there at 11 this morning. Since I don't have a car nor could I operate one, I will have to ride with you."

  As he got up, my mouth was hanging open in astonishment.

  Arkham Asylum was formerly a country estate of the old world aristocracy; in the early part of the Twentieth Century it was converted into an asylum to house the psychologically insane for the county. It took us only a few minutes driving from the heart of Arkham into the sprawling grounds of the asylum. From talking to Augustine, I had learned that he knew the Head Psychiatrist Dr. Derleth quite well, in his spare time Augustine would actually conduct interviews with several of the patients here; those that babbled on about forgotten gods and monsters.

  After a brief chat with Dr. Derleth in his office, we split up; Augustine would handle the delicate task of interviewing the husband Vito, while I was left to the task of speaking to the more approachable wife Gabriela.

  Gabriela only agreed to talk to me not in her room, but rather on one of the picnic tables in the patio of the hospital grounds. Dried leaves rustled in the wind as I sat down on a wooden bench opposite her. Mrs. Macario had worn her best dress today, it seemed like it was one of the few chances that she had in conversing with anyone who was not a member of the hospital staff. With her lipstick stained teeth, and hair that was not professionally made up, she looked pitiful.

  "I will answer only a few questions sir." Her raspy voice seemed quite upset when I told her I wanted to talk about the Corbitt house.

  "I understand Mrs. Macario. Anything you can tell me can greatly help my task in getting to the bottom of this mystery."

  Her eyes were downcast. "There is no mystery sir. The house is evil."

  "What do you mean? Can you explain further Ma'am?"

  "There is _something_ in there. I don't want to think of it because it frightens me." She pulled out an old handkerchief from her purse and wiped the tears from her foundation caked cheeks.

  "Mrs. Macario, I know this is hard but you must." I pleaded.

  "At night, I would wake up and find it leaning over at me, as if it was looking at an insect. When it got angry, it would throw our plates across the room. But it really hated Vito and it always concentrated on him, I don't know why."

  "So it was a spirit then? Do you know what it looked like?"

  She looked at me, her face grimacing. "It was a spirit, but that of a man, a _dark _man… With _burning eyes_ of evil."


	5. Part V

  We spent the rest of the day interviewing the two Macario boys after receiving permission from their guardians in Baltimore. But the two children knew nothing other than dreaming about a strange man with burning eyes.

  As I drove Augustine back to my parent's mansion, we began to formulate what we would do the following day.

  "You may meet me in the library tomorrow afternoon." Augustine answered.

  "The library? What will you find there?"

  "Any historical items on the Corbitt house."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Use your computer to find any archived newspaper articles for any previous incidents at the Corbitt house."

  "So you actually want me to use the Internet eh? I guess technology does have some uses in our investigations after all." I chided.

  "To a certain degree, yes. That's why I need you for that."

  I adjusted the dials on the car radio. "So what kind of music do you like?"

  "I'm afraid my kind of music wouldn't be found on the airwaves." Augustine smiled.

  "Come on. Arkham County has got many varied radio stations for every taste."

  "Not for my tastes. I prefer Gregorian chants. In Latin."

  "Gregorian chants? Monk music?" I was surprised.

  "Yes. It soothes the soul."

  The next morning, I had returned to my office and fired up the computer. Having gotten on the Internet, I quickly located the website for the Boston Tattler, the venerable newspaper that had been providing information for the people of Arkham for over one hundred years. After logging in, I quickly searched the archives section for any information on the Corbitt house. What I found did not disappoint me.

  Other than the Macario incident that happened several months before, there were other tragedies that had happened to the previous tenants of that accursed house. As far back as 1880 a family of French immigrants had moved into the house but fled not soon after because of a series of violent accidents that left the parents dead and three children crippled. The house then stood vacant for almost thirty years after that.

  In 1909 another family moved in, and immediately fell prey to illnesses. In 1914, the oldest brother went mad and killed himself with a kitchen knife, and the heartbroken family moved out. In 1953, a third family rented the house, but they left almost immediately, after they all became ill at the same time. But what was truly frightening was that the Tattler's archival records go back no further because of a fire that destroyed a number of records in 1878. Did the Corbitt house exist earlier than that?

  My suspicions were further reinforced when I met Augustine for lunch. He had spent the entire morning looking for any records in the library and he came up with some startling revelations after I had disclosed my own findings to him.

  "Have you found out anything about the Corbitt house?" I asked as we were having our coffee.

  "Yes. I found quite a bit of information."

  "Such as?"

  "Well, first of all, I know why it's called the Corbitt house."

  He had my full attention now. "Go on."

  "It was built in 1835 by an unnamed, prosperous merchant but he fell ill almost immediately and sold it to a certain Mr. Walter Corbitt, esquire."

  "Walter Corbitt. We may need to go to the City Hall to see if we can find something on him."

  "Yes, but there is more. In 1852 Walter Corbitt is sued by his neighbors."

  "Sued? For what?"

  Augustine closed his eyes as he recalled the exact words. "Apparently his neighbors made a petition to force him to leave the area _in consequence of his sickening habits and inauspicious demeanor_."

  "So what happened?" I asked.

  "Corbitt apparently won the lawsuit. His obituary in 1866 states that he still lived in the same place. Library records also stated that there was a second lawsuit being waged."

  "Another one after he died? What for?"

  "To prevent Corbitt from being buried in his basement, as provided by his will."

  "Who won this lawsuit?"

  "No further records were found." Augustine answered.

  "So we don't know whether he was buried there or not. Wonderful. What should we do now?"

  "The Hall of Records."

    The City Hall of Arkham County was only a short distance away from the restaurant so we decided that a quick walk should be sufficient. As we spent the afternoon combing through the records, other strange facts appeared. It seemed that the executor of Walter Corbitt's will was a certain Reverend Michael Thomas, pastor of the Chapel of Contemplation & Church of Our Lord Granter of Secrets. The register of churches notes the closure of the Chapel of contemplation as well as the _excommunication_ of Reverend Thomas in 1912.

  As the afternoon sun waned, Augustine was able to find an obscure constabulary record that dealt with a secret police raid on the Chapel of Contemplation. Apparently the police raid was occasioned by affidavits from townsfolk swearing that members of the church were responsible for the disappearances of neighborhood children. During the raid three policemen and seventeen cult members were killed by either gunplay or fire. Although 54 members of the church were ultimately arrested, all but eight were released. It seemed from the records that there was a massive cover-up and that this story never saw print in the newspapers at the time. Did this mean that the church had some very influential members of the community among them? The records seemed to tell us no more.

  Pastor Michael Thomas was apparently arrested and sentenced to forty years in prison on five counts of second-degree murder. He escaped from prison in 1917 and was never heard from again.

  Dusk had finally arrived as we stood in front of a burnt-out lot in the east side of the town. Apparently these ruins are what were left of the Chapel of Contemplation. The former walls and foundation seemed more like natural stone cliffs due to their age. As we began to poke around I had a strange sensation that I could not quite place, as if the spirit within me was crying out a warning for me not to linger on too long in this accursed place. As I shook my head, Augustine called out to me that he had found a half buried trap door. With my help we both uncovered it and it had seemed to lead into a basement.

  As we gingerly stepped down into the musty cellar with our flashlights leading the way, I could still smell the soot from the fire that happened nearly a century ago. We also found two skeletons dressed in fragments of black silk robes, these corpses were apparently cultist who hid here during the raid and had died in the fire. Augustine had taken something from the altar in the center of the room and went over to me.

  He beckoned to me. "Look at this."

  It looked like a book bound in black leather. Augustine sifted through its moldy pages as if he was possessed.

  "It looks like a book of some kind." I said.

  "It's a journal of a certain Mr. Walter Corbitt."

  "What does it say?" I asked.

  "The last entry is quite interesting. If I am not mistaken, it was written by Pastor Thomas himself." Augustine explained.

  "And?"

  "It states that Walter Corbitt was indeed buried in the basement of his own house _in accordance with his wishes and with the wishes of that One Who Waits in the Dark_."

  Night had finally fallen as we made our way to the Corbitt house. I had a flashlight with me but I had also decided to bring along my pistol just in case. Augustine was dressed entirely in black and was carrying a wrapped bundle in addition to his flashlight.

  Augustine's voice was nearly a whisper. "Whatever happens, it ends tonight."

  I merely nodded. There wasn't anything else that needed to be said.

  As we came through the front door and began to make our way towards the stairwell to the basement, we began to hear loud crashing noises from the upstairs bedrooms. As the noises seemed to reverberate louder, I pulled out my pistol for it seemed that the noises had began to come our way, as if something was daring us to venture upstairs. As I began to go upstairs, Augustine placed his hand on my shoulder.

  "No, leave it. The basement is the key." He shouted.

  As we made our way down the stairs to the basement, the floorboards seemed to creak and sway and I almost fell down the long flight of stairs had it not been for Augustine's timely intervention. It seemed that Mr. Corbitt was trying his best not to let us go any further as even our flashlights began to dim despite the fact that we had fresh batteries installed on them.

  We had finally made it into the basement but it seemed to be a dead end. The floor was solid concrete; it would take days for us to smash through the foundation. But it was then that I had noticed something, the horrid smell that had plagued me the first night I had spent in this house assaulted my nostrils and made me want to vomit. Augustine made me sit for a while as he began poking around the smallish room while the crashing noise upstairs continued to reverberate as if to distract us from our hellish task. Finding a metal spade, Augustine began to smash the concrete flooring but he was making little head way as the flooring was thick. Soon however, his persistence paid off as he slowly began to chip the rock solid floor as the noise from above continued to assault our eardrums.

  It was then that I had noticed a small rat crawl out of the east wall that was made out of wood. It had apparently made a little crawl space. All of a sudden my thoughts had coalesced into one terrifying conclusion. Corbitt was not underneath the room; he was _beside_ it.

   The next few moments I can hardly recall, as the noise upstairs was deafening yet I began tearing at the wooden planks that characterized the east wall until I at last made a crawl space that I was able to edge through and was now into a smaller room that had adjoined the basement. My flashlight's rays had dimmed to that of a small candle and as I scanned the room I noticed that it had ghostly faces painted on its walls. My body seemed to swoon as my senses began to slow, almost as if a spell had been cast at me. As I turned my head slowly I noticed that there was a narrow wooden pallet on the other side of the chamber.

  Lying on the pallet was a shrunken corpse. It was naked and shriveled, with a skin like parched leather. My body seemed to move in slow motion that I had thought I was dreaming when the figure suddenly got up and shuffled towards me. I can see that it had wide-flaring, saucer like eyes. It had lost all its hair and the shrunken gums made its teeth look quite long. A sweet, rotting smell came from it as it cackled and growled as it came ever closer. I could barely move my hand to reach for my gun as it locked its hideous claws around my neck.

  The next thing I remember was that I was lying on the chamber floor; surrounded by tiny skeletons of dead rats as Augustine stood over me and helped me up. I asked him what had happened and he mentioned that I fell unconscious as he decapitated the walking corpse with his blessed sword.

  A grateful Mr. Valdemar sold the Corbitt house at a profit several weeks later. I was paid in full and given a bonus for my successful investigation in proving that the house wasn't haunted. Augustine and I kept the incident in the basement as our secret. Within a few months it will be torn down to make way for a strip mall. The City Council wanted to revitalize the area in order to bring new business into it.

  Since that time, I have had recurring nightmares as well as spending some time in Arkham Asylum. Alcohol and drugs has done much to make me forget about that terrifying night but there are times that I wake up in the dark of the night in a cold sweat thinking that Corbitt was making his way to my bedside.

  I will never forget the words of Augustine as he explained what Corbitt was up to. "In his quest for immortality, Corbitt was a sorcerer in the process of transforming himself into something _entirely inhuman_."

  So you don't believe me?

  But you must. Here. Look at my throat. Notice the long scars there? Don't listen to the doctors who say that I did that myself. It was none other than Corbitt you know. You must believe me.

  So you have to go now? Very well. But just do me a favor, okay?

  Don't turn off the lights please. I beg of you.

  I can't stand the dark. He waits for me in the dark.  


End file.
